


blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine

by dykejaskiers



Series: Gobblepot Holiday High Jinks 2019 [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Christmas Adjacent, Dialogue Light, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Slice of Life, Wordcount: 100-1.000, i mean... in a sense at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:00:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21633307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykejaskiers/pseuds/dykejaskiers
Summary: “What–”Before Jim can finish the question, Oswald stumbles into his apartment, bleeding all over his carpet and dark cherry floor boarding.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Series: Gobblepot Holiday High Jinks 2019 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559254
Comments: 4
Kudos: 57





	blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to go for a short-fic-per-day type of thing leading up to Christmas - looking forward to the mess it'll be!
> 
> Title from Hozier's "Cherry Wine" bc I'm a simple lesbian

“What–”

Before Jim can finish the question, Oswald stumbles into his apartment, bleeding all over his carpet and dark cherry floor boarding. He evades Jim’s hands, reaching out for... _something_ , he’s not sure, and makes his way further in towards the living room, where he drops sideways down on the couch, eyes pressing shut in pain. His hair's wet from the rain and dripping slush on Jim's living room carpet, and his nose is red from the cold.

Jim blinks at the sight in silence for a few seconds before his thoughts catch up to him. He closes his front door, double locks it for good measure, and goes to retrieve his emergency kit from the bathroom.

When he comes back, Oswald’s rolled on to his back and is breathing shallowly through his nose, lips pursed into a tight line. His eyes are still closed.

Jim clears his throat to announce his presence, though he doubts it makes a difference. Oswald must’ve heard his footsteps approaching – his floor’s not exactly renowned for being quiet. He doesn’t open his eyes, but makes a small sound of acknowledgment, and gestures vaguely towards his left side.

Even in the relative darkness of his apartment, Jim can see the way Oswald’s dark purple jacket is drenched in blood. He frowns, crouching down to get a better look. Moving the jacket out of the way reveals a white button-up turned crimson, and unless Jim’s mistaken, something that is still bleeding. 

His mouth ticks in a disapproving way, but he says nothing except, “I’m going to take your jacket and shirt off.”

Oswald mumbles something that sounds like, “How forward of you, James.”

It’s a stab wound. Or, at least Jim thinks it is. Whatever the cause, it’s going to need stitches, and Jim figures he’s going to need a drink. He stares at the bleeding, assessing damage, then tells Oswald to stay put.

“Just as I was about to go for a run,” Oswald says, dryly.

Jim decidedly _doesn’t_ laugh at that. He walks over to his shelf, eyes the single malt and then the bourbon, before deciding on the former. 

It takes him half a glass’ time to clean up the wound, and the rest of it and a few extra fingers to stitch it up and force Oswald to take some painkillers. By the time he’s finished, Jim’s buzzed, and Oswald’s propped up on his couch, wearing an old shirt Jim fished from the bottom of his closet, and looking generally unhappy. His eyes are trained somewhere around the empty fireplace, so out of focus that Jim briefly wonders where his mind's gone to.

“What happened?” Jim asks. He feels at this point he sort of deserves to know. Not only because he just spent arguably too much time and effort on patching up a known criminal, but also, well. Then there's the other stuff. The stuff they don't really yet talk about. The stuff that lead Oswald to his doorsteps, out of all the people in Gotham.

Oswald’s not looking at him. “Nothing,” he says, then as if sensing Jim’s doubtful look, adds, “Nothing important. A misunderstanding.”

“Those usually leave you bleeding out?”

Oswald gives him a wry smile. “Occupational hazard,” he says, deliberately slowly.

Jim huffs a laugh. “Yeah, no kidding.”

He considers offering Oswald a drink – there’s no fear of Oswald overstaying his welcome, not with the way he’s slumped on Jim’s couch, already – but then he notices how Oswald’s blinks grow longer, stretch into lazy efforts to keep his eyes open at all, and he thinks maybe a glass of whiskey is out of the question, for now. 

“You can sleep here,” Jim tells him. As if it’s not a given. As if he’d say no, if Oswald asked. 

A corner of Oswald’s mouth quirks into a half-smile that’s more amused than dangerous, these days. “Promise not to murder me in my sleep?”

Jim looks at Oswald’s hands, loosely crossed over his chest. He reaches out, brushing his thumb as gently as he can against the ashen skin – as gently as he can do anything, anymore. 

Oswald opens his eyes an inch to look. He swallows, a small frown appearing between his brows – his gaze flits between their hands and Jim’s face, scanning for whatever he needs to find in Jim’s expression. Then he closes his eyes again, and let’s it be.

“I’ll try my best,” Jim tells him. “Though, I won’t be held responsible if you pass away in your sleep.”

Oswald snorts. “I think the courts would consider it a personal early Christmas present.”

Jim winces, if only a little, but says nothing. He reaches for his drink and relaxes against the couch, listening to Oswald’s quiet breathing as he falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @ queergordon for my Gotham blog!


End file.
